


Open the Bottle and Let the Wine Breathe

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Pirates and Mermen, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, MerMay 2019, Merman Bucky, Pirate Captain Steve Rogers, Scallywags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 15:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: Steve swallows, the weight of the basket in his hand pulling down his shoulder and making him stand lopsided. He can hear Thor’s words echoing in his ear -You’ll not woo the creature up here- And draws up what courage he can muster as he hefts the basket up.“I brought provisions,” he says with a hopeful smile. “I thought you might be hungry?





	Open the Bottle and Let the Wine Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Kali](http://kalika999.tumblr.com) who kindly bid on me in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 auction.  
> The prompt was "A salty old fisherman encounters an even saltier merman. They swap stories over cheap wine and cheese." From this reddit [thread](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7uluav/wp_a_salty_old_fisherman_encounters_an_even/)  
> The story went wherever it damn well pleased, and I tried to keep up.  
> Beta read by the wonderful Panaceaknits, thank you!

The wind tugs at Steve’s hair, pulling golden strands loose from under his tricorn hat and plastering them to his sweat-soaked brow. He pulls at the oars, gritting his teeth as the sea works against him, trying to force his little boat back towards the waiting ship. He can see it before him, the sails gathered and the anchor dropped. The crew are leaning over the gunwale, laughing and joking amongst themselves as Steve strains at the oars, boots knocking the basket set at his feet. With the contrary winds he cannot risk lowering the boat’s single sail, so row he must. It feels counterintuitive, to put your back to your destination, and he prays that he doesn’t drive himself onto the rocks. He’d never hear the end of it.

The brim of his hat tips as the wind picks up, and Steve ducks his head before it is blown clean away. On the ship, his crewmen wave and gesture, and if he could let go of the oars without losing them to the waves Steve would be compelled to send a few gestures back. They would laugh it off, bless their salted hides. He was a lucky man to be blessed with such a gaggle of brine-soaked sea-dogs.  
Thor, his laugh rolling over the waves like thunder, starts to sing. It’s one of those ribald little numbers he collects like the ship’s hull collects barnacles, of fire down below meaning both the furnace that keeps them warm and well fed and...well… other fires that menfolk are prey to, especially the ones that frequent the cathouses in port.  
Steve has never ventured into such a place himself, having little interest in the fairer sex. A misfortune that had him thrown in chains, but ultimately it was his salvation, for if he had not been thrown into the hold of a ship bound for the New World then he would not have escaped it. Nor would he have seen the cruel captain sent to the depths of the ocean while a band of pirates commandeered his vessel.  
No doubt Steve was a brave man. Brave but also reckless, and foolhardy enough to do something like this.

The boat knocks against a rock, stone scraping against the hull, and Steve lifts up his oars. He has been careless, so lost in thought that he did not notice the island fast approaching.  
Island seems generous for what it is, a sloping rock punching out of the Atlantic some miles west of the Windward Islands, the tail end of a chain of cayes that spiral widdershins from Haiti to Curacao. The seas in these parts are known for being treacherous, especially during the long hurricane season, and the islands that garland the South American coast vanish and reappear as if they were living creatures. Steve has heard tale from more than one poor soul who had buried treasure on an atoll, thinking himself cunning, only to return and find the island vanished beneath the waves. It seems only fitting that it was in a place like this that he had first spied the merman.  
It was Barton, the ship’s Hawkeye who had seen the creature first, while the ship was en route to Cartagena. He had sounded the alarm and the crew had come rushing to look, expecting to see a Spanish galleon or a merchant ship off the starboard bow. But instead there was just another rock looking to wreck the unwary, and a crewman insisting that he had seen a mermaid. The men had panicked at first, for mermaids are ill omens indeed. Steve had ordered them to return to their duties, Barton trailing after them insisting to anyone who would spare him the time that he hadn’t imagined it.  
Steve had put the incident aside, and the ship had continued west. When they returned two weeks later, he had come up onto the deck, his eyes sharp and watchful, and had seen something in the azure waters. Something neither man nor fish.

Steve uses an oar to push against the black rocks, edging the boat closer to a natural sand causeway on the western edge of the island. He climbs out of the boat, boots finding purchase on the slippery rocks, and hauls his vessel up onto the rock. He is all too aware that a change in weather, a sudden storm or shift in wind could send waves crashing over the island, smashing his boat and sweeping the remains out to sea, and most likely Steve with it. He would be drowned or left stranded, for the Star has only one lifeboat and it would take the crew days to sail to the nearest port and purchase another. If the weather was fair he could swim for the ship, he has seen no sharks thus far. But if the weather was fair then there would-  
Steve shakes his head, putting these concerns aside. He’s nervous, and it is making his mind wander, finding trouble where there is none to be had. He pulls the boat a little further up, making sure that the oars are safely stowed away, and lifts out the basket. He checks his clothing - his finest blue velvet coat with silver embroidery - is in place and tugs down the brim of his cap, before taking his first steps into a strange land.

When he had first seen the creature, it had fascinated him. The rest of the crew had plenty to say of the legends, how the sight of one meant death and destruction, that the ship would be sunk to the bottom of the sea like the unfortunate merchants their livelihoods depended on. Steve knows the legends of mermaids, but what of mermen?  
He had been foolhardy, he knew it then and knows it now. A fool to bring the ship so close to the rocks, to the constantly shifting sandbars and the treacherous tides, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature again. They could have been dashed on the rocks a hundred times over, but his men worked the sails with (hardly) a complaint, affording him a chance to study the chain of islands. A flash of green scales one month and a storm of dark hair another, slowly building a picture in his mind’s eye.  
It had been the Hawkeye who finally lost patience, up in his crows nest. He had sighted the creature sat upon the rock, and called down to the crew to weigh anchor.  
_You have never been a coward, Captain_ , he’d said with a wry smile. _Don’t go starting now._  
Before Steve could argue the men had gathered together a basket of provisions, and made the lifeboat ready, and what could Steve do but acquiesce? If nothing else he could ask the creature if they were bound by some curse, doomed to sink having sighted something too beautiful for mans lowly gaze.  
Steve pauses and clears his throat. Up ahead, perched on the summit overlooking the waves, is the merman.

In all his wandering thoughts, Steve had prepared himself for every conceivable outcome; to be faced with something hideous, all teeth and gills with no thought but to tear out his throat and feast on his flesh. For a fair maid with sharp teeth behind her smile.  
The thought of a merman holds none of the traditional fascinations, at least not in the eyes of the crew, but to Steve he is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. His hair, long and silken and the colour of roast chestnuts, curls around his shoulders in soft waves. His eyes are the palest blue, like sunlight on water, and his shoulders are broad and tanned from hours spent basking in the sun.  
But the tail. The tail is beyond Steve’s wildest imaginings.  
It is not the dense, tapered tail of a shark, nor is it the florid curves of those strange, spined things the crew sometimes drag up in their fishing nets. It is longer than Steve had imagined, perhaps the length of his own body, sleek and flexible and shining, as though spread with diamonds that glittered in the sun. Curved against the black rock, it is the rich green of dewy moss and raindrops on pine needles, tapering to a wide fan of a tail.  
The waves crash against the rock again and again, soaking the merman in fine sea spray and making his honeyed skin glisten, and Steve is entranced, enchanted by the play of muscles along his shoulders, at the curve of his spine as he turns to look at the errant captain.  
“You gonna stare all day or are you gonna come sit?”

Steve’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but no sound comes out.  
“You look like a fish,” the merman says, turning back to the sea. “Keep at it and someone’s gonna land a hook in there.”  
Up on the deck of the Star, Wilson waves at them both, before making a complicated gesture that makes Steve’s ears turn red.  
“Is that your ship?” the merman asks.  
“It is,” Steve says with no small amount of pride. “The Star. The finest ship in the Atlantic, manned by the bravest crew.”  
The merman doesn’t point out the inaccuracies in that statement, especially when half of the aforementioned crew are making encouraging gestures and pantomiming the pouring of wine. “I’ve seen it passing by.” The merman glances his way again. “Once or twice.”  
Steve swallows, the weight of the basket in his hand pulling down his shoulder and making him stand lopsided. He can hear Thor’s words echoing in his ear - _You’ll not woo the creature up here_ \- And draws up what courage he can muster as he hefts the basket up.  
“I brought provisions,” he says with a hopeful smile. “I thought you might be hungry?”  
The merman pats the rock beside him. “Well, come on,” he says with a grin, displaying sharp teeth. “Sit down before you fall down.”

The spray soaks his trousers as he sits, but Steve has spent enough time aboard a ship to become accustomed to being permanently damp. The merman tilts his head up as a wave crashes against the rock, as though the cold water refreshed him. It is invigorating, as is the bite of the cold wind, but Steve is grateful for his coat all the same. The merman wears nothing, not a scrap of linen between the world and his bronzed chest, but does not seem troubled by the cold.  
“I am Steven Rogers,” Steve says, the words feeling stilted and overly formal on his tongue.  
“Captain of the Star,” the merman adds. So he has been paying attention. “Are you a Privateer, Captain Rogers.”  
“Steve,” he amends. “And no. No we are not Privateers, nor are we merchants.”  
“Pirates,” the merman utters softly.  
“Aye.” Steve sees no point in lying. “We are.”  
The merman looks amused. “If you were came here because of the legends, seeking the tears of a mermaid or to gain safe passage, I cannot help you.” He glances down at himself. “As you see I am not a mermaid.”  
“I don’t want your tears,” Steve says quickly.  
“Hmm.” The corner of the merman’s eyes crease up when he smiles. “Then what do you want?”

The crew must be losing patience with how long Steve is taking, for Thor chooses that moment to lean over the gunwale and roar at the top of his lungs. “ **Ask him if he’s courting!** ”  
Steve curses the winds for dropping at the worst possible moment. For the waves to cease their sound and fury long enough for the words to drift over to the rock. He drops his head, a blush rising up his throat and staining his cheeks. The merman stifles a laugh with the back of his hand, and Steve sees that his fingers are webbed. Fine pink skin stretches from finger to finger up to the first knuckles, and when the light hits them he can see the threads of veins underneath, shining like stained glass.  
“I.” Steve clears his throat. Onwards into battle. “I have bread, fresh bread, from when we last made port.” It had been the previous morning, so as to whether it was still fresh was debatable. “And cheese.” At least that he could be sure was still good. His knowledge of cheese making was limited to it involving cows, possibly, and not much beyond that. “Do you… do you like bread?” Steve asks, cringing a little at how the words come out.  
“I eat nothing but fish all day,” the merman laughs. “Give me anything but more fish.”

Across the water the crew make another little performance of opening the wine. Thor looks about ready to swim over and open it for them. This whole expedition is fraught enough without having his jolly boatswain getting involved, and Steve tries to be unobtrusive in his returning gestures. _I have this, please stop doing that_. He clears his throat, pulling the bottle out of the basket and holding it up. “I brought red wine, I hope that’s alright.” The merman nods, and Steve pulls out the cork.  
A ragged cheer floats across the water as he passes the bottle over, and the merman makes a show of reading the label before taking a sip.  
“Mpf.” The bottle clicks against the his pointed teeth, a dribble of dark red wine spilling from his mouth, staining his lips dark red. He swallows, wiping the heel of his hand across his chin. “It’s good. What is it?”  
“Spanish, I think?” Steve takes the bottle back when it’s offered, and tries again to decipher the curling script on the label. He had never been much good with letters, especially not ones that loop and curl so excessively. “At least I found it on a Spanish corsair.”  
He takes a careful sip. The wine is rich and full bodied, and his mouth fills with the taste of ripe summer berries and oil lamps and leather. He takes another, deeper drink, and hands the bottle back to the merman, their fingers brushing. His skin is cool and damp, and the touch of it raises goosebumps on Steve’s arms.

Time passes slowly sat side by side on the rock, and Steve fills his lungs with sea air, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a little. He shakes his head when the merman offers him a turn with the wine, and reaches into the basket for the loaf of bread. He tears off a piece of crust, splitting it in half and offering the upper crust to his companion, keeping the blackened underside, scorched on the oven floor, to himself.  
The merman sinks his pointed teeth into the bread, tearing into it with obvious relish. The bread is a little on the stale side, but the salt spray softens it a little and adds seasoning to the dense loaf.  
It has been weeks since Steve last tasted fresh bread, the ship’s rations being mostly salt beef and ship’s biscuits. While other crew may dine on salt pork his own abstain, out of respect of Wilson and the twins, who consider such things sinful. Steve wonders absently what the same god that frowns upon pigs must feel about plundering and murder, and concludes that it is no business of his.  
Perhaps the merman would like salt beef next time, if there is a next time.

“Stop thinking so loud,” the merman cuts through his musings. “You’re distracting.” He offers the wine, and this time Steve accepts.  
“You have an advantage over me,” he says, swallowing down burnt crust soaked in red wine.  
“I don’t doubt it,” the merman grins.  
“No, no.” Steve fetches the cheese from the basket, and with his pocket knife pares off a slice and hands it over. “I mean you know my name but I don’t know yours.”  
The merman takes the slice of cheese and sniffs at it before nibbling at a corner. He must find it palatable because he slips the rest of it into his mouth and chews once before swallowing. “What do you want my name to be.”  
“Come on,” Steve chides, cutting another slice for himself. “I want it to be what it is.”  
The merman reaches for the wine, swallowing a decent mouthful. From his position Steve can appreciate the working of his throat as he drinks. Sated, the merman hands the bottle back, licking his red-stained lips, and tips back his head. The sound he makes, a low keening overlaid with high popping sounds, rhythmic and oddly melodious, makes Steve’s ears itch. He gives Steve a pleased look that demands the reward of more bread, so Steve tears off a fresh piece for them both.  
“Is that your name? I don’t think I can manage that,” Steve admits as the merman tears into the bread with gusto. “Do you have a nickname?”  
The merman takes his time over the bread, giving it the attention it deserves, and washes down the last of it with a little more wine.  
“No,” he says at last. “You’ll have to think of one yourself.”

Steve draws his knife across the piece of cheese, cutting another slice for the merman and handing it over.  
He has never named something before, and now the task is upon him he is unable to decide. How did his own mother choose his name? Was she too struck with the enormity of the task.  
It should be no great challenge, and the name you are born with is not necessarily the one they mark on your grave, Steve knows this for certain. But how do you you choose?  
“Buchanan,” he says at last, slowly and almost afraid, as if he were casting some kind of spell. Perhaps he was, an invocation to bind him to the merman in some way, an invisible thread that could stretch across the ocean itself.  
“Buchanan,” the merman repeats, the name rolling easily off his tongue. “Alright, then. Buchanan.”  
He gestures for another piece of cheese, and Steve hands over the knife and wedge, heart beating in his throat. The merman - _Buchanan_ \- regards the knife curiously. It is nothing of great value but for the inherent worth a steel blade has on a ship of wood and rope, being a folding clasp knife with a short, squared off blade. When Steve had first entered the seafaring life he had heard stories of new sailors being ordered to snap the point off their knives, lest they be used against their fellow crewmen. Since then he has seen many pointed blades, some even aimed at his own self, and besides a sharp edge and the inclination is all a man needs to see another life ended.  
“Did you steal this from the Spanish too?” Buchanan asks before cutting a thick slice of cheese and handing it over.  
“A Scotsman,” Steve replies, and it is true, after a fashion.

The silence that falls between them is more comfortable, and Buchanan cuts himself thin slivers of cheese, hewing the remains of the block in an undulating wave reminiscent of the sea before them. Steve for his part is content to chew upon the pieces offered to him, and watch the ships sails billowing in the rising winds.  
The cheese is returned to the basket, and the knife to its owner. Steve wipes the blade on his trouser leg before folding it closed and stowing it away, and they pass the bottle back and forth a little more.  
The air feels charged between them, weighted like the clouds that herald an oncoming storm, like a ship in the distance and the heft of a sword in his hand.  
Steve had always found the weight of anticipation almost unbearable, restless and eager to get to the fight. But here, with the waves crashing against the rocks and a belly full of plundered wine, he savours the wait. Buchanan sits a little closer, shoulder resting comfortably against his, the chill of his bare skin warmed by Steve’s body heat. His tail twitches from side to side, the sunlight hitting the scales and transforming them into crushed emeralds. Buchanan closes his eyes, serene and languid like the ship’s cat, down to the tick-tock of his tail when he is at his ease.  
Steve’s heart swells with the sight, rarer and more precious than the hold of a Spanish armada, and he commits every detail to memory, drinking it like sweet heady wine.

Buchanan glances his way and grins, and Steve tries, a moment too late, to school his expression. The merman allows him the illusion of dignity, nodding towards the ship. “When I first spied your boat I thought you had come to beg for the lives of your crew,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “Your head filled with stories.”  
“No, that’s not why I’m here.” Steve shakes his head, and considers the wine bottle before deciding against it. He is pleasantly at ease, and any more might go to his head. Buchanan nods, acknowledging what has thus far gone unspoken, even if the crew have made Steve’s intentions abundantly clear.  
The ship has passed through these waters time and time again, they have made no secret of their presence, sailing in broad daylight with half the sails furled. A soul who did not want to be found could have easily avoided them, moved to deeper waters or the shadows of the rocks. Steve begins to wonder if he was not the only one searching for something.  
“Why didn’t you leave?” he asks. “You could have swum away, could you not?”  
Steve has already begun to make plans if the merman is somehow trapped. They could fill the lifeboat with seawater, carry him wherever he needed to-  
“I could,” Buchanan admits. “But yours was the first ship to not take a shot at me, or throw out a net.”  
Steve sits up with an indignant yelp. “Who?” he demands. “Who fired on you? What was the name of the ship? I swear I will run them to ground and-”  
Buchanan laughs, his head tilting back, his sun-warmed shoulders shaking. There is no malice in his laughter, but a shock of delight, and Steve finds it hard to hold onto his wrath. He sits back, and waits for the merman to regain his breath, wiping at his eyes.

“Hmn.” Buchanan clears his throat. “Uh. Thank you. Also don’t.” He fights back the urge to laugh again. “If you go sailing off in search of revenge, who will bring me bread and wine?” He turns to give Steve a reproachful look. “Now that I have become so accustomed to company, who will sit with me and watch the world pass by?”  
Mollified, Steve ducks his head. “Well, we can’t have that,” he says softly. He reaches over to wrap his hand around the mermans, threading his rough, rope-burned fingers through Buchanan’s, smooth and webbed. They fit so easily, palm against palm, cut from different cloths but made to intertwine.  
“You’re noble,” Buchanan murmurs in his ear. “I like that about you.”  
Steve demurs, even as the merman leans in closer. “I am only trying to do what is right.”  
“You’re also an idiot.” Buchanan grins, taking the sting out of the words. “I like that too.”  
Steve is drawn in, like the compass pin is pulled north, and the merman moves with him. They turn to face each other, like the tides drawn to the moon, and though Buchanan is as radiant he is within reach, and Steve brushes the tip of his nose against his cheek, feeling the pull and swell of muscle as he smiles again.  
“What else do you like about me?” Steve asks, close enough to smell the wine and salt on Buchanan’s breath.  
“Oh, now,” the merman sighs, webbed hand cupping against Steve’s cheek. “Where to start?”

Buchanan’s lips are cold, deliciously so, and open at the first press of Steve’s. He leans into the kiss, sharp teeth parted, an open cavern waiting to be explored.  
Across the water there is a loud cheer, and Steve groans. The crew are still watching, and though the wind is rising he can still hear their voices. He tugs off his tricorn hat, using it to mask them from their unwelcome audience, and feels Buchanan’s laugh rush into his throat. He tastes of sweet wine and seawater, and Steve would drink of him and never slake his thirst. The hat tumbles from his fingers, and is taken by the sea. A tithe, perhaps, and one he has no qualms paying.  
How unfair that man was born without gills, and that he eventually has to stop and breathe. He cannot bear to move far, not now, and traces a line of delicate, feathery kisses along the firm line of Buchanan’s jaw, and up to the flared scallop shell of his ear. Behind it lies three slits, half hidden by his long hair, and Steve brushes it aside to press his mouth to them, tentative and gentle. Buchanan shudders as Steve breathes, hot and damp, against his gills, curling his hand around the nape of Steve’s neck to hold him in place as he mouths at the delicate skin.  
Soon enough he loses patience, tugging Steve back to his waiting lips.

If pressed Steve could not say how much time they spend, only that it was not enough. It would never be enough. Buchanan curls up against him, seeking out his warmth, fingers curling in the frayed linen of his shirt, quieted by the steady motion of Steve’s hand tracing his shoulders, back and forth like the ceaseless tide.  
“It cannot last,” Buchanan murmurs, staring out at the ship as the crew go about their duties, and for a moment Steve is uncertain of what he refers to.  
“What?” Steve’s cheek is pressed to the merman’s brow, the fine silk of his hair against his lips.  
“Piracy,” Buchanan says, kissing the base of his throat, skin exposed by his open shirt. It feels reassuring, _don’t be foolish_ the kiss chides. _We will outlast the stars_.  
“Is that so?” Steve presses the flat of his hand against the base of Buchanan’s spine, down where skin becomes scale.  
“I have watches the seas, seen the age of piracy dawn. The Dutch and Spanish will not tolerate you for long. They’ll seize the pirate towns, police the waters. They will see your days numbered.”  
The same thoughts have weighed on Steve’s mind. There has already been word in port of the English and Dutch sending naval escorts with their merchant ships. There are too many pirates, and not enough plunder, or so it seems. Perhaps it is time for him to move on to something new.  
“The ocean is vast, the horizon endless,” Steve replies. Perhaps he could settle somewhere overlooking clear blue waters, and leave the villainy for those with a taste for it. Soon, but not today. He kisses Buchanan’s brow. “They’ll have to catch me first.”

While they have been distracted the weather has turned, the wind biting and the clouds gathering, heavy and grey. Little wonder Buchanan has been curled up against him, though Steve hopes that warmth is not the only reason for his being so close.  
As sweet as the moment is, it must end. The ship is bound for Martinique, and they have already lost half a days sailing. He has duties to attend to, and doesn’t doubt that Buchanan has his own tasks that have been set aside for his company.  
“A storm is coming,” Buchanan murmurs, as on deck Wilson waves over to them, the ship listing on the waves.  
“We’ll weather it.”  
Buchanan tugs at his collar, damp with sea spray, and Steve sits up, gathering up the remains of the impromptu picnic and piling them in the basket.  
“Would you like the wine?” Steve offers the bottle, and Buchanan shakes his head.  
“What's the fun in drinking alone?”  
“Next time, then,” Steve says, laying the bottle on top of the other things, and Buchanan does not disagree.

Steve casts around for his hat, patting his pockets to check for his pocket knife. He is delaying the inevitable, and feels almost childish for doing so.  
“Where are you headed?” Buchanan asks, and maybe he wants to delay his departure too.  
“Saint Anne,” Steve answers, squinting at the horizon. “Then if the weather is fair, Grenada.”  
“So you’ll be back soon.” Steve would be deaf to miss the leading edge in Buchanan’s tone.  
“Two weeks,” he says. “Maybe less?”  
“I will look for you.” Buchanan tilts his head up for a last kiss.  
Steve would refuse him nothing. “I will be here,” he promises between kisses, brief and sweet. “With bread and wine.”  
“And oranges,” Buchanan adds.  
Steve gives him a last kiss, a promise in itself. “And oranges.”

He turns to walk down the rocky slope, to where his boat waits for him, and Buchanan reaches up to grasp his hand. “Who was Buchanan?” he asks, his head tilted to one side.  
Oh, but he is cunning, and Steve already loves him.  
“I was.” Steve threads their fingers together, already impatient for the next time he can do so, before this time is even over. “My name was Steven Buchanan, but when I gained my freedom I took the name Rogers.” He smiles at the memory. Had he ever been that young? “From a flag.”  
A black flag flown from an approaching ship, the day the world changed. A Pirate captain who freed him from his chains and set him loose on an unsuspecting world.  
“You gave me your name,” Buchanan says, his eyes bright.  
Steve tilts his head, and his smile comes easily. “Well, I wasn’t using it.”

With one last kiss to the palm of Buchanan’s hand Steve takes his leave, glancing back every few steps to check that Buchanan is still there. He is, his pale eyes shining as Steve pushes the boat out onto the waves, and rows for the ship.


End file.
